Till Your Roots Run Dry

She wilts.  A rose silent in its solitary

 

dying at a death camp of flowers

on a remote Himalayan           mountain.  There’s a place

 

where some people are            afraid of what grows

from the ground calling it garbage

 

with a foreign tongue.  After the war of Capital

Gain—also known as economic

 

conflict, everything’s lost.  So to soothe her

own synapses she uses her thorns

 

to etch a sweet little ditty.  A slow

 song for a sick rose.   

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1 Comment

  1. I identify with this one.


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